


One Thousand Words

by Octinary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Jaskier | Dandelion, Character Study, Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Letters, M/M, Other, Professor Jaskier | Dandelion, Queerplatonic Relationships, missing each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25684234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary
Summary: Since he promised to write at the beginning of the season, Jaskier has received a letter from Geralt every week.  In return, he has sent exactly zero letters.  It's completely out of character for him and unbelievably frustrating, but he just can't think of anything to say.Geralt cannot believe he agreed to write at the beginning of the season, it's completely out of character for him and unbelievably frustrating, but still he does it.  He writes thousands of words to Jaskier without managing to say much of anything at all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 143





	1. A Picture Is Worth...

With a sigh, Jaskier pours himself a glass of wine and consigns himself to his writing desk for another evening of self-inflicted torture: trying to write a letter to Geralt of Rivia. That spring Geralt had declared he was going to Skellige for the season on invitation from Hjalmar an Craite, who was planning to go giant hunting and wanted the extra sword. To Jaskier’s utter and astonished delight, Geralt had extended the invitation to him and while the bard’s first instinct was to proclaim that of course he would follow Geralt anywhere, after a moment’s sober reflection he had remembered that he was already booked for a number of engagements that summer and, to be perfectly honest, was prone to seasickness. So he had regretfully turned him down and loudly lamented the loss of all of Geralt’s fantastic Skelligan escapades to the mists of time since no one would be present to immortalize them in song. With a smile Jaskier was almost tempted to say was fond, Geralt had pointed out that he would still be keeping his journal as usual, but, if Jaskier wanted, he would be willing to send letters to Oxenfurt. And, just for Jaskier’s information of course and not to imply that he wanted them or anything, if Jaskier posted letters to Kaer Trolde they would find their way to the witcher. He’d then clapped Jaskier on the shoulder, left him the care of Roach (who apparently also did not like boats) and sailed off into the sunset.

He’d been floating on the short hike from Novigrad to Oxenfurt, high on the trust he’d earned from the witcher and giddy thinking about all the things they would write back and forth, but with Geralt gone, Jaskier found he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. And, to make matters worse, Geralt was downright prolific! It had been a month and a half since he’d set sail and like clockwork, every week a letter arrived in the witcher’s untrained but tidy hand. True, they are exceptionally dry, utterly lacking in any emotional depth and mostly just accounts of where he’d gone and what had happened there, including a very informative treatise on how the Skelligers hunt for whales, but still they come. And Jaskier has sent back nothing. Which is utterly ridiculous and downright embarrassing. This never happens to him. He’s the student who always writes far over the word limit on essays, the professor whose lectures always extend into the breaks, the bard who always gleefully sings through the night… and suddenly he’s mute as a swan.

The problem is, he thinks, that so much of communicating with Geralt is nonverbal. Sure Jaskier runs his mouth easily, but the sentences he starts can end up in a variety of different places if he notices a furrowed brow, a wrinkled nose or a downturned lip. Here, he lacks the feedback. Should he say he misses him or would that make Geralt uncomfortable and shy away? If he doesn’t say it, will Geralt think he doesn’t? Are stories of his daily life too inconsequential or would they be received as welcome diversions? Are the politics Geralt left behind of interest to him, or boring? For the first time in his life he sees the breadth of the language, the poetry and prose of it, laid before him as a responsibility he isn't sure he’s worthy of. And so he sits here every night, fretting and twirling his quill and chewing his lip and searching fitfully for something important enough to send across the sea.

With another sigh he flips open a folio on his desk and pulls out the piece of foolscap he’s been doodling on recently. Here, at school, where paper and ink aren’t such a luxury, he likes to keep some scrap with him to indulge his fidgety hands. As he dips his quill and continues reproducing the vine and floral pattern he’d seen on a truly stunning gown at the faculty dinner last weekend down the left margin of the sheet, his eyes wander over the mess he’s made of the rest of the page. In one corner is a fairly accurate sketch of the songbird that’s been waking him up every morning and his attempt at transcribing the 8 note trill it brightly sings. There’s a short cartoon of him decapitating the history master who had ruthlessly reviewed his latest attempt at historical fiction (yes, he knows the Lady Amalthea and Sir Lir lived 350 years apart, but it made a good story dammit!) and presenting the head to a crowd of his adoring students. Another corner is dominated by Geralt’s eyes, Jaskier having woken one morning yearning to recall the shape of his pupils, so like a cat’s and yet so utterly unlike anything else he’s ever seen. Along the right of the sheet is a tally of scores in Zoltan’s hand from the dice game they played when the dwarf visited. The lines start straight and rapidly progress to squiggly and Jaskier is only now noticing that his marks were kept in groups of five while Zoltan’s were in groups of four which meant that he’d actually beat the rat bastard and shouldn’t have had to close their exorbitant tab at the bar. There’s a drawing of Roach, rounder than she normally looks in early summer accompanied by a detailed and labelled diagram of her tack since Jaskier was forcing himself to learn it. The stable master had informed him that he was going to have to start riding her regularly or she would be perfectly (and happily) spherical come autumn. There are wine stains and berry stains and a set list from his gig at the Viscountess’. In fact, there’s only about two square inches of clear parchment in the centre of the page.

With a soft smile, Jaskier draws a heart in the empty space, folds the paper in three and seals it for posting in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was stuck in the middle of something else I'm working on and wanted to try to break the block by writing something short, so I set myself a limit of 1000 words. Of course that got me thinking about the saying 'a picture is worth a thousand words.'
> 
> If you want to see what the letter Jaskier sent Geralt looks like, [@diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim](https://diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim.tumblr.com/) has done an amazing fanart of it! Check it out [here](https://diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim.tumblr.com/post/638354710863249408/one-thousand-words-chapter-1-octinary)!


	2. ... A Thousand Words

In retrospect, Geralt really can't believe he'd actually volunteered to write Jaskier all summer. It didn't sound like something he would agree to if it was suggested to him, let alone something he would propose himself, but on the other hand he hadn't been even remotely prepared for Jaskier to turn down his offer to come with him to Skellige for the season (the bard willingly followed him everywhere!) and so had, floundering, grabbed on to the only idea he'd had to maintain a link between them while floating in the storm of rejection. Penpals. It was ludicrous.

The worst part, after he has accepted that he brought this whole mess down upon himself, is knowing that he doesn’t actually have to do it. His proposal that they write to each other was not a contract or a solemn pledge, nothing he is honour bound to keep for his own reputation or that of his school or profession, just a friendly suggestion at best really. And he even has an easy out; he is literally fighting sirens and drowners on a daily basis just to keep the damn boat afloat. If he doesn’t write, says that he was far too busy surviving, the light in Jaskier’s eyes would dim for a moment, but he would get over it. Geralt’s disappointed the bard in so many other myriad and complex ways over the years, the lack of a few scribbled lines would surely be nothing more than a drop in the bucket. But although Jaskier would forgive him and accept whatever mumbled excuses he proffered without question, Geralt would always know that it wasn’t actually a lack of time or resources or even honest forgetfulness that would have driven this small wedge between them, but his own cowardice: Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf and Butcher of Blaviken was scared that his prose would be found lacking. Not writing would be no crime of passion, no angrily growled lie to cover his own hurt or dunderheaded blathering to cover his own misunderstanding. It would be premeditated, a conscious decision to do something that would upset Jaskier just to make his own life marginally simpler. Ultimately, his pride won’t allow it. Besides, if he doesn’t send word as promised, Jaskier might think he died and sell Roach. So he grits his teeth, steels his nerves and writes.

The first letter he writes, he does not send. It’s a single sentence scribbled in an uncharacteristic fit of pique on their third night out from Kaer Trolde: You’re not here and that’s stupid because you would love it. He rips it up and scatters it to the winds and the waters, the temporary insanity that spawned it not lasting long enough for even the ink to dry. But Geralt had to admit that what the aborted missive lacked in length or eloquence it more than made up for in honesty. Jaskier, seasickness aside, would have loved it here. The camaraderie of the hunting party, the storytelling around the evening meals, the artful exaggeration of daring deeds on previous hunts, the boasts of great feats yet to be accomplished on this one… Jaskier should have been born a Skelliger. But it’s more than just knowing that the bard would have had a ball. Geralt has known his host, Hjalmar an Craite, for most of the younger man’s life, and his father, Crach an Craite, even longer, so it doesn’t take him long to find an easy place, pace and peace with these men and, if he’s honest, even start to enjoy himself. He doesn’t regret his decision to forgo his usual summer Path for a season cavorting with the Skelligers, chasing myths of ice giants and decimating the local sea-based monster population, but he does feel a twinge of something missing now and then. An occasional bard shaped hole. An undercurrent of disappointment. He’d wanted to show Jaskier Skellige for sure, but he’d also wanted Jaskier to see him here, free and full and fit and among friends. Sometimes he thinks Jaskier only sees him at his worst.

Geralt finally settles on a letter format that resembles the journal he keeps for hunts. He’d been carefully trained to recall details and record them for the benefit of future generations of Wolves, a habit he has never broken despite the oppressive certainty that no future generations will be forthcoming. Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir all still keep journals; years, decades, and centuries of knowledge dutifully chronicled and then abandoned to the decrepit keep each winter as the monsters they describe and the monsters that produced them slowly fade from human memory. Unless Jaskier finally gets his way and manages to relocate the library at Kaer Morhen to Oxenfurt. The familiar format means he doesn't talk about sentiments, only situations. He doesn't say he misses Jaskier, that he wishes he was here, that the sailing songs the Skelligers sing ring flat in ears that want to hear his voice. Geralt doesn't say things like that out loud when they are speaking in person, how could he possibly write them? Give them a physical presence in this world where anyone could see them? So instead he writes details: The islands they visit, what they do there, including the amazing story of the Skelligers hunting a whale; two small boats and eight men working in tandem to take down the abyssal behemoth. Tiny, inconsequential humans standing stubbornly before the seemingly eternal power and majesty of the wild and somehow forcing it to bay. It had been breathtaking and inspiring and more than a little heartbreaking and Jaskier would have known how to say what it had felt like, whereas Geralt only knows how to say what had happened.

Geralt knows his fumbling efforts to wrestle the words into sentences and paragraphs pale in comparison to the bard's masterful playing of the language, but still he sits down to write every week, one thousand words, and hopes Jaskier gets the picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much as soon as I finished Jaskier's POV I wanted to tackle Geralt's as well...


	3. Reading Comprehension

Although he receives his mail when he goes to take breakfast in the faculty lounge, Jaskier usually saves the letters from Geralt for when he is back in his rooms after dinner. Given the almost academic nature of them they are hard to put down and pick back up again easily, so he prefers to have a space of uninterrupted time set aside and a glass of wine handy while he dutifully works his way through them. This time though he’s glad no one is around to see him almost drop his drink as he descends into giddy giggles. This is not the standard letter he’s been receiving from Geralt all summer: a dry summary of places and events. This is a direct response to the scattered doodlings he had sent to the witcher in lieu of an actual letter when the guilt from not having posted anything in return overwhelmed his common sense. He’d been dreading that Geralt would have taken one look at the incoherent mess, assumed he wasn’t taking this seriously and cut him off entirely. That fear had been somewhat allayed when he’d received the typical letter last week and he’d very firmly told himself he was happy to return to business as usual. He’d even managed to scribble down a few half-hearted lines in response, although he hadn’t posted them. But this? This is so much better than business as usual! Now that Geralt is actually talking to him as opposed to some vague audience, Jaskier finds his ability to interpret the witcher’s subtext from limited apparent text works just as well on paper as it does in person.

“Is that a pattern for your tailor in the margin? I suppose you expect me to keep this scrap then and return it,” means, “Don’t be so melodramatic; I’m not gone forever. And what the hell took you so long to write?” with just a hint of, “I’m glad you did write.”

“The bird is a wood thrush. They are here too, on some of the bigger islands,” means, “Remember we actually aren’t that far apart.”

“If you’re planning on decapitating anyone, you’ll probably want an axe, not a sword. It’s easier that way. Although I’m sure whatever minor slight you’ve imagined probably doesn’t deserve a beheading,” means, “Tell me the story; I want to hear it.”

“Those are definitely cat eyes, right? Have you adopted a cat?” means, “Holy shit, you cannot just draw my eyes all over your notebook like a lovesick teenager! Sweet gods, Jaskier what is wrong with you? I opened this letter in front of other people for fuck’s sake!” Although the accompanying charcoal sketch someone in the hunting party had made of Geralt and a man who Jaskier assumes is Hjalmar an Craite talking and laughing (well, smiling on Geralt’s part, or at least not scowling as deeply as usual) over a shared fire screams loud and clear, “Don’t forget me!”

“Zoltan was cheating you, you idiot. Serves you right if you lost all your money,” means, “Don’t make me worry about you. I can’t come knock some heads together for you at the drop of a hat like usual. Take better care of yourself.” And the followup, “What were you playing, anyways?” means, “How is Zoltan doing? I haven’t seen him in a while,” with a touch of added sulking over the lack of challenging Gwent partners in the hunting party. One of Geralt’s earlier letters mentioned his group were mostly playing dice in the evenings. Jaskier is well aware that the typically not superstitious witcher truly believes that the dice are always loaded against him. Something about random chance always screwing him over.

“You probably put the audience to sleep with that set,” means, “It’s dumb when you just sit there and croon. You should play happier pieces.” Despite Jaskier’s multiple attempts to explain that some people liked sad songs, found them cathartic even, Geralt persistently disagreed. Jaskier was quite willing to oblige his tastes when they travelled together; the witcher had witnessed enough sad things in his life.

And of course, “Jaskier, what have you done to my horse?” means, “Thank you for taking such good care of Roach, Jaskier. You are the very best friend in the whole wide world.” (Okay, Jaskier begrudgingly admits, maybe there is no subtext to that statement. But she’s already looking a lot better! He’s taken her out every day since he made that drawing and he’s even gotten to the point where he is quick enough at tacking and untacking her that the stable master said he’s not a complete waste of space.)

Jaskier grins like an idiot as he re-reads the letter several times and even laughs aloud as he imagines Geralt’s adorably flustered reaction when first opening Jaskier’s letter and seeing his own eyes staring back at him. Without overthinking it for once, he grabs a fresh sheet of paper and starts his response, answering all of Geralt’s questions, voiced and unvoiced, and adding a hundred other small details and asides as he goes. The words he’s been missing for weeks flow from him frantically, like his body had forgotten up until that very moment that talking to the witcher was one of its favourite things to do and was now desperately trying to make up for lost time. He’d gotten stuck on the distance and the details and forgotten the simple pleasure of being with Geralt, even by paper proxy. And worse, by failing to write he’s denied Geralt his own presence in return! Utterly unacceptable. He makes a mess in his exuberance, ink stains on his fingers and face by the time he is finished, but he has eight pages to post in the morning and, as previously mentioned, it’s not like anyone’s around to comment on his appearance anyways. And if Jaskier squeals like a schoolgirl when he notices the small heart beside Geralt’s signature, well, there’s no one around to comment on that either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the relationship tag may be becoming invalid. I'm slowly veering out of Jaskier & Geralt as friends and blindly wandering into Jaskier/Geralt...
> 
> I'm having fun with these short little things, so there is probably going to be at least one more from Geralt's POV to even it up.


	4. Writing Composition

Geralt knows that his letters to Jaskier aren’t very entertaining. In fact, he can almost hear the bard’s exasperated voice lamenting that he’d gotten into a fist fight with a bear for gods’ sake, how could you possibly make that boring!?! In his defense though, he’s never been trained in writing for any other purpose than the succinct preservation of information and he has definitely never had anything like a penpal before. When, after six weeks away, he had still not received anything from Jaskier, he’d grimly accepted that his pathetic attempts at communication were clearly not worthy of response. He’d sulked for a few days, feeling the bard-shaped hole in the proceedings even more acutely, but ultimately decided to keep writing anyway. He had promised after all and if their interpersonal interactions are going to go pear-shaped again, then let it be Jaskier’s fault for once. Geralt has had enough turns.

Having thus steeled himself for disappointment and zealously embraced the mantra that he doesn’t care if Jaskier writes or not, he is completely unprepared for how much Jaskier’s first letter does affect him. For starters, the damn thing still smells like the man, even after exchanging hands so many times and travelling so many miles. If he closes his eyes, it is almost like Jaskier is here with him, or was here just a moment ago and has only left for a second. For another thing, the scattered sketches and snippets of moments chaotically arranged on the page give such a good impression of what it feels like to be near Jaskier, caught up in the whirlwind that is the other man’s mind, that Geralt starts to think that maybe he does understand the appeal of art after all. It’s overwhelming and he has to fold it closed quickly and tuck it away for private perusal before he’s caught flustered and undone. There’s a fluttering in his stomach as he pores over it that night after the others have gone to sleep, a lightness to his being that he isn’t accustomed to.

By the morning it’s solidified into an iron core of resolve. His letters are inadequate compared to Jaskier’s and he could bemoan how it’s only to be expected considering Jaskier’s life is literally art and communication or he could mope and refuse to respond at all or he could actually just suck it up and try harder to be worthy of this. To keep this. So instead of just hurriedly and concisely scribbling down the week’s events after dinner, he blocks off the whole afternoon, sits down and tries to properly write. He spends the first few hours staring blankly out to sea and vividly regretting every time he has ever suggested that Jaskier’s chosen profession was a cakewalk compared to his. He would give anything to just eviscerate a monster, but Jaskier doesn’t want monster guts; he wants a real letter. After a lot of face scrunching and pained looks and one ruined quill, Hjalmar evidently decides he needs help and suggests he imagine that the bard is there and just talk to him as he normally does. Geralt feels a little silly doing it, and is pretty sure the Skelligers think he’s lost his mind, but after pushing away his discomfort it is actually surprisingly easy to call up from his memory a phantom Jaskier complete with lilting voice, sparkling eyes and fidgety mannerisms. And, as always, it’s surprisingly easy to talk to him. So he playfully teases Jaskier and leaves open-ended statements for him to expand on and shows an interest as best he can and stubbornly represses anything too open and vulnerable and strongly insinuates that Roach had better be fit as a fiddle when he gets back at the end of the summer. Just as if Jaskier were actually here. He finishes with a small heart beside his signature because, well, Jaskier had sent one first and if he can be that courageous then surely Geralt can find the balls to respond in kind.

Hjalmar laughs when he sees Geralt seriously composing and knocks the witcher’s shoulder in jest. “What is he to you anyways? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you try so hard at something before and I’ve seen you single-handedly fight off eight men at once.”

He knows the Skelliger probably expects him to say, ‘Lover,’ (he did just draw a heart beside his name like a fucking doe-eyed maiden after all) but it wouldn’t be strictly true. Not according to the common definition of the word anyway; the physical aspect of their relationship is intimate, but hardly sexual. It would be a safe bet to say, ‘Someone I travel with a lot,’ because that’s completely true and comfortably neutral. If he were braver, he could say, ‘He’s my friend,’ or even, ‘He’s my best friend.’ It’s true and Jaskier’s more than earned the title. Hell, some of Jaskier’s songs about Geralt have made it to Skellige, so he could even say, ‘He’s my barker,’ as Jaskier has wholeheartedly embraced the position he suggested when he was first trying to bribe the witcher into tolerating his company. But none of that really explains why his letter got Geralt’s heart racing or how he can casually seem to get Geralt talking or why Geralt shuffles off away from the group to jealously read and reread his missive away from their prying eyes. What he has with Jaskier is something unique. Something he’s never had before. Something that makes him want to try new things and take risks regardless of the potential embarrassment and seek things he’d long ago told himself he wasn’t allowed to have. So he smirks and answers, “He’s my penpal,” and Hjalmar an Craite doesn’t get it, but when he describes the interaction to Jaskier in his next letter, he’s pretty sure the bard does. At least if the multiple exclamation points he receives in return are any indication. Multiple exclamation points and another small heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's going to be one more chapter that covers their reunion at the end of the summer.


	5. Ginger, Heartbeats and Penpals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I don't know how to write what happens next. It used to be fun, but now everything is awful and I hate it all and I just don't care. I'm never writing again!  
> Also Me: *finally gets more than three hours of uninterrupted sleep*  
> Me: Oh. Never mind.

The thought of what to say to Geralt plagues Jaskier as Roach trots happily along to Novigrad to meet his boat, which he finds surprising. Firstly because before this summer the only thing on his mind from atop a horse moving at any pace quicker than a slow walk was, ‘Don’t fall off,’ and secondly because he had hoped that he was well and truly done with this stumbling-over-words bullshit. After their original opening fumbles, they had fallen into an easy rhythm of exchange and the letters had become the high point of Jaskier’s week, both the receiving and the writing. But while what Geralt wrote was for the most part essentially what Geralt would’ve said, there was one mark on every letter that would have undoubtedly remained unspoken had they been conversing instead of corresponding: every one had ended with a small heart next to Geralt’s signature. He has no idea what to do with that.

Jaskier hadn’t thought much about it when he’d drawn the heart on his first scribblings to Geralt; it had just seemed like the best way to visually represent the feeling he had thinking about the witcher. And on the one hand, of course he had meant it to mean, ‘I love you,’ because he did and he’d wanted to express that, but on the other hand he had definitely been aware of the plausible deniability present in the ambiguous letter format which would have easily allowed him to claim it was just another idle doodle if Geralt had pressed him and seemed uncomfortable with it. After the giddy shock of seeing the witcher reciprocate the symbol had worn off, Jaskier had briefly flirted with the idea that maybe Geralt didn’t actually know what it meant. He’d talked himself out of that though. Geralt might not be a literary genius schooled in the subtleties of symbolism and metaphor, but how do you misinterpret a heart for fuck’s sake? And Geralt was the one who had wanted to stay in touch in the first place! So all signs pointed confidently to the conclusion that Geralt loved him back. The part of it that’s bothering him now is whether he can get away with saying it out loud.

Jaskier is used to saying and hearing, ‘I love you,’ in a lot of different contexts: Lovers of course, but also parents, siblings, cousins, friends. On the other hand, he would be heart-broken, but not surprised to learn that Geralt has never said or heard it in his life. And also this is, well, different somehow. While he wouldn’t necessarily be opposed if Geralt offered, he doesn’t expect their relationship will take a sexual turn. That isn’t what they are to each other. He doesn’t know if there is a word for what they are to each other, he just knows it’s unbelievably important and the writer in him is a little terrified that anything he can’t properly define might not exist. Saying it would expose the current nebulous nature of their relationship, potentially prompting an attempt at labelling it that could only fail. He knows the safer course of action is to just continue on as they have been. Except now he's grown accustomed to saying it and hearing it from Geralt and more than anything else he’s ever wanted in his life, he wants that to continue. So the debate rages on.

It remains unresolved by the time he’s standing on the dock, reins in hand, while Geralt walks down the ramp off the galley and immediately begins fawning over his horse. “Well, hello to you too.”

Assured that Roach is, as promised, fine, Geralt reaches into his bag. “Got you something.”

Unwrapping the package, Jaskier finds 8" of some kind of root and just stares at Geralt questioningly.

The witcher smiles back softly. “Ginger. For seasickness.”

It’s Geralt-speak for, ‘I wish you had come,’ and immediately Jaskier knows what to do: How to say it and not say it. He smiles, thanks him and then taps the witcher twice in the centre of his chest with his index finger, ba-bump. Like a heartbeat.

Geralt raises a brow questioningly, but Jaskier sees the meaning come to him quickly. His eyes go wide for a second and his lips part in a small ‘oh,’ but he doesn’t shy away. Geralt is evidently just as eager to acknowledge this. Very intentionally he raises a loose fist and knocks the back of his knuckles against Jaskier’s shoulder, repeating the pattern.

Unprepared for that intensity, Jaskier can’t help blushing and babbling. “So are you immediately off to Kaer Morhen to hibernate? It’s a bit earlier in the fall than you’d normally head home, but you’ve had a busy summer.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Going to wait a few weeks yet. You needed back in Oxenfurt?”

He grins, seeing the obvious invitation for what it is. “Not ‘til the winter semester starts. Dinner?”

Geralt nods and after a few minutes of silent travel towards the tavern, awkwardly offers, “You know, Vesemir's trained birds to carry letters to Yspaden. Allows him to arrange for supplies before wandering all the way down the mountain. They could fly in the winter. We can keep writing. Always.”

“Are you asking me to be your forever penpal?” It warms his soul to know that Geralt is trying to in some way formalize whatever this is between them too, but it’s kind of hilarious that that’s the best he’s managed to come up with. Although given that Jaskier has had to sullenly conclude that a word for what they are to each other doesn’t seem to exist, maybe they might as well use penpal. If there’s anything that Jaskier’s learned from this summer it’s that you don’t always need the right words.

But Geralt clears his throat, takes a deep breath and replies, “When you can’t be there, letters are the next best thing.” Because if there’s anything that Geralt has learned, it’s that sometimes you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that's all of it for now. Thanks for following along with my little writing experiment!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr ([octinary.tumblr.com](https://octinary.tumblr.com/)) if you want to talk/ask me anything.


End file.
